


Honeymoon Suite

by Juceisloose



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Inexperienced, Inexplicit Porn, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Porn with Feelings, Smut, detective John, vigilante john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 18:30:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juceisloose/pseuds/Juceisloose
Summary: John is hopelessly devoted to his job as The Joker, and has been since he was released from Arkham again and moved in with Bruce. (Not to mention, as Alfred puts it, he has desperate attachment issues to Bruce.) When John tells Bruce he's having a weekend of pure relaxation in a local honeymoon suite alone, Bruce is suspicious, so he investigates.





	Honeymoon Suite

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is loosely inspired by an old TV show I watched as a kid! Anyone who recognises what it is is a legend XD

  
_“What’s this?”_

_“Well, Bruce, it looks like John has gotten himself a reservation to a honeymoon suite.”_

_“... Thanks for that, Tiffany.”_

_“No problem, Boss.”_

_“John, what is this all about?”_

_“All the hotels around here were booked.”_

_“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.”_

_“What? Can’t a girl relax for the weekend every now and then without being interrogated around here?”_

_“No. You’re up to something.”_

_The affronted cluck of a tongue. “Have a little faith, Brucie! No catch. No ‘something’. Just a weekend of pure, blissful relaxation after strenuous weeks of living up to my beautiful legacy and all that, being a respectable vigilante again! I pinkie-swear. Is that so hard to believe?”_

_Overwrought female laughter. “Relaxation? In a honeymoon suite? Do you know what you’ll be hearing through the walls?”_

_“Tiffany.”_

_“Sorry, Boss. I couldn’t help myself. Hey, I’m leaving, I’m leaving...” The laughter followed._

_“You’ll be all right for a weekend without me, won’t you, buddy? I mean, you’re Batman. You can take on anything alone and blindfolded!”_

_Finally, a sigh. “Stay out of trouble, John.”_

_“I’ll be **very** good.”_

_“That isn’t what I meant.”_

That had been that morning. As Bruce rolled into bed, bruised and exhausted, he let his bleary mind wander to John, who had dangerously consumed most of it, anyway, throughout his patrol. He’d been receiving pictures of the suite and selfies all day, like John was dishing out evidence of his relaxation, and Bruce had to admit the honeymoon suite looked desirable: it was a mixture of marble whites and dynamite reds, with grand paintings, silk on pillows, bedsheets and curtains, a love-heart Jacuzzi, a bed almost as large as Bruce’s, a bar that had a Cupid statue that spat out ice, a sofa that could seat twelve people, a large TV, a shower that left room for two occupants and around the clock room service. His photo gallery was clogged with pictures of John sprawled over the furniture beaming, John standing on the balcony smiling sunnily, and John eating pancakes that looked fluffier than pancakes had a right to be with his eyes clenched in bliss, but Bruce couldn’t find it in himself to be entirely convinced about John’s relaxation trip.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _want him_ to relax. On the contrary, he’d been worrying for days that John didn’t do that enough anymore. The man loved being Joker; he loved working alongside Batman during the dark hours, ridding crime with fists and giggles. He’d behaved very well since his release from Arkham, and had continuously defied Bruce’s expectations, who’d allowed him to work with him again under strict conditions and a wary heart. It was just that that made Bruce sceptical: John loved being Joker to the point it was nearly unhealthy, and even during the daytime he spoke quite fondly of their night activities, planning, training, pushing himself to the brink, all in anticipation for when Bruce decided it was finally time to break out the cowl.

What had changed? Bruce just didn’t understand. He’d gone from living and breathing for being a vigilante to lounging lazily in an expensive (he’d swiped Bruce’s credit card, the cheeky minx) honeymoon suite somewhere, putting his feet up. Maybe he’d reached the breaking point. Not everyone could spend their lives surviving on coffee.  
  
_And_ not to mention John’s ‘attachment issues’, as Alfred had once called them through postcard, to Bruce. He followed him through the manor whistling and skipping; he moaned and whinged when Bruce had to show his face in Wayne Enterprises for a few hours. Not just once he’d rung Bruce sporadically throughout those hours just to have meaningless small talk and pester him about coming home; a couple of times, he’d even sauntered unceremoniously into his office, sat down, and offered lunch in a brown paper bag to him as an excuse for his arrival, though he wouldn’t leave afterwards. When left alone in the manor, he searched, he moved things, he crafted. Once, Bruce had come home to a kitchen covered in baking ingredients, and ‘cookies’ – calling them cookies would be too generous; try ashy-tasting coal – roasting in the oven, consumed by inexplicable flames; another time, he’d found the Batcave sparkling with glitter.

And now he was spending two whole days without him, and he hadn’t even called.

Bruce picked up his phone, a number written on his palm in stark blue ink. He’d been arguing with himself about whether or not he should call him all day, and had defiantly pulled off keeping his hands off his phone so far despite his burning gut feeling. He’d had to turn it off at lunchtime, though, because his fingers had started to itch. It took about a minute to turn back on, and froze when he tried to swipe it to the password screen. He needed a new phone. He busied himself fluffing his pillow as it rang, the dial tone washing over him soothingly.

Finally, the dial tone stopped, and he prompted John to speak when he was basked by silence. “Hello?”

“Oh! Bruce!” Familiar delight crept into John’s voice, reserved for Bruce alone. It made Bruce feel like he’d swallowed razors. Microwaved ones. “Good to hear from you, buddy! _So_ good.” Strangely, it sounded like he meant it – so why hadn’t he called? “What’s up?”

Bruce rolled onto his stomach. Bruises on the skin there ached. “Working hard?”

“Ah, ah, ah!” This was reminiscent of a tut. “As promised, I am _relaxing_. This Jacuzzi is _amazing_. Did you know you can make bubbles smell like watermelons? I do now!”

“Uh-huh.” Dubiousness cracked slyly into his voice, and he did nothing to prevent it. “Relaxing hard?”

“Working hard?” John shot back knowingly. Bruce had the mind to suppress a smile, even if it would be private, and opened his mouth to respond. “I don’t believe it! That slimy _pig_!”

“Er – John?”

Bruce heard water spill, like John had sat up, or turned. He could hear bubbles popping relaxingly in the background, but the lulling effect was kind of lost underneath the violent crash of disturbed water.

“I knew it. I _knew it_ ,” John muttered, and Bruce heard him scrambling, and water sloshing precariously, and a bag being unzipped. “Rude _crook_. Political _scum_.”

Bruce leaned back, satisfied. “How’s the bed?”

“Er – Sorry, bud?” said John under the scrambling with more breath than voice.

“The bed,” Bruce repeated with a hint of a smirk. “How is it?”

“Oh! The bed! It’s – erm – it’s great, Brucie! Just... great.” The sloshing stopped, but Bruce could still hear popping bubbles, so he hadn’t gotten out, and he could hear something, muffled clicking noises... A camera shuttle. He was sure of it. Amusement sparked warmer in his chest; triumph. “ _Scum, scum, scum._ ”

“Really? What about the shower?”

“The – The what?”

“The shower. How is it?”

“Spectacular! Excellent! Marvellous! _That one’s a little blurry_.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re relaxing, John.” Bruce crossed one arm underneath his head languorously. “I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, me, too, Bruce!” More water sloshing. “Look, can I call you back, buddy? I’m in the Jacuzzi.”

“Sure. Have fun relaxing.”

“Catch ya later, buddy!” There was a thump, like John had put the phone down, but then another sound, like the phone was sliding across a surface, and then Bruce was listening to the muffled sounds of water, and John’s drowning voice cursing, “Shoot!”

Bruce hung up, not bothering to resist his smile; he had no audience. He made a decision before his brain could catch up: he slid on his shoes and a coat, took his keys off a rack, and marched determinedly to the front door.

***

The honeymoon suite was even nicer than he’d been led to believe. The foyer was regal, large, and flecked white marble with sparks of gold: gold picture frames, gold trolleys, gold name tags, even gold vases. He told the receptionist he was there to see ‘John Doe’, who had arrived that morning and had unique grassy hair, and she winked secretively before giving him the room number. He was tailed by an over-eager employee whose pockets were swollen with tips, and who lingered even when they arrived at the door. In disbelief, he gave the woman a ten dollar tip, but she still lingered, staring hungrily at his worn wallet, so he pressed fifty dollars into her hand and, in a state of disgusted incredulousness, lifted the golden door knocker to knock.

“One minute!” was the response that drifted back to him. Amused, he listened to John scrambling inside, and, with an ember of confusion, something being knocked over, before the door was thrown open with force. John looked confused for a moment, but his face soon lit up. “Buddy!” Then that light was dampened by something reminiscent of dread-touched panic rather quickly. “Oh! Buddy,” he said, like he’d just realised the reality of the situation and crashed, hard. “Now isn’t a good time.” He gestured at himself. His skin was wet, and he was wearing nothing but a fluffy white dressing gown that left some of his chest, and his angular collarbone, bare. Bruce’s mouth dried up. It felt personal and inappropriate to see him in pyjamas, almost like he was wearing nothing but underwear. Maybe, underneath the layer of fluff, he was. He didn’t appear to be wearing a shirt. Embarrassment crept heat up Bruce’s face. “So – er – come back later.”

Just like that, John went to slam the door. Hit with another bout of disbelief, and remnants of amusement, mind you, Bruce jerked out his foot and jammed it between the door and the door frame, rewarded with a sharp look of surprise.

“I just walked all this way. And you’re telling me to go away?”

Panic flared in John’s eyes. “No, no, no! I didn’t mean it like that, buddy! It’s just-” He made a miserable sound and opened the door wider. “Come in,” he surrendered.

Bruce did. One look around suggested John hadn’t lingered near the living area; the place was spotless, apart from the littered remains of a broken vase he dreaded to see the price tag of. He saw the Jacuzzi to his right, flooding with bubbles. Sat on the edge of it was a camera, and the bag it had apparently been stuffed in, a brown leather satchel. His father’s satchel. He should have been angry John had taken the sentimental object without permission, but he just wasn’t. “You’ve made yourself at home,” he observed dubiously. Not even the kitchen looked touched. On the kitchen counter, though, sat Bruce’s packaged lasagne, defrosting in the warm air. “Is that my lasagne?”

John looked at it, playing with the strings of his dressing gown nervously. He managed to make the glance seem absentminded, like, mentally, he was far away. “Oh,” he replied half-heartedly, “you don’t mind, do you, Bruce? I was just so excited to go, I grabbed things without really looking...”

Bruce didn’t really mind, but he gave him a severe look anyway, not wanting it to become a habit. John didn’t meet his gaze. “What’s the balcony like? You forgot to send me a picture.” He started towards it without waiting for an answer; the doors to it were open, facing the Jacuzzi, a warm breeze ruffling its silk curtains.

“What? No! Buddy, buddy, buddy!” John, with his new speed he’d worked hard for, managed to worm his way in front of Bruce and, with the element of surprise on his side, push him back a few steps. Bruce blinked, astonished, at his friend’s brokenly panicky face. “I mean, look!” He pointed at a plush crimson armchair wedged into the corner of the room near an exotic plant. “You can’t go to the balcony without appreciating the chair!”

“It’s just a chair, John,” Bruce pointed out blankly.

“No, no,” John argued, his voice rising a few octaves. He was practically shivering with energy as he pulled him over to the chair by the lapel. “It isn’t just any old chair! No, sir! Sit down.”

Bruce obliged, more to see how far John would pan out the distraction than because of actual curiosity about the chair. Amusement thawed the frozen parts of him he hadn’t known had frozen with time, with past events, with the departure of Alfred primarily. When was the last time he’d openly felt amusement like this? Batman didn’t _get_ amused; Bruce Wayne brooded. He made as if to get up. “It’s just a-”

“No!” Feverishly, John pressed a lump on the arm of the chair, and it started to tremble relaxingly. “S-See? It massages!”

“Very good, John.”

At this point, John’s voice was nearly high-pitched. “And it plays music! It plays music, Bruce! How cool is that?” He pressed a button, and what Bruce presumed was supposed to be romantic jazz hummed from a speaker inside the plush chair. “And if you open this compartment, it holds-”

Bruce hastily snapped the compartment closed, much to John’s silent surprise. “I... don’t need to see what’s in the compartment, John.”

John looked puzzled, trying to lift the compartment lid; stubbornly pry it from Bruce’s stiff fingers. “What? Are there... body parts in there? _Weapons_?”

“No.” John stared, so Bruce amended, “There are things for honeymoon couples who like relishing in the comfort of not just their bed.”

John tilted his head, innocence vibrating in his eyes. To his credit, the confusion ebbed drastically quickly, and he looked horrified and harassed all of a sudden. Not answering, he swooped to the bar Bruce had seen in one of the pictures, nervously babbling: “Do you like whiskey? Of course you like whiskey! You’re _Bruce Wayne_. You probably take shots of it for breakfast. I don’t blame you, what with the criminals and the demanding social mask and the four hours of sleep you’ve got going on. Speaking of, do you get hallucinations when you sleep so little, buddy? Or am I just off my meds? Do you want ice? You want ice. Is it hot in here, or is it just you – _I mean me_. Geez. Sorry. Sorry, buddy. Tired and hot.” He passed him a tumbler.

“Er.” Bruce looked at the cold tumbler. At first, he thought the ratio of ice to whiskey was something to be gaped at, until he realised the ice wasn’t blemished by bronze dye, and–“John, there’s no whiskey in this.”

“What?”

“Ice,” Bruce said, emphasising the syllables. “You gave me a glass of ice.”

“Oh! Jesus!” Seeming appalled, John snatched the tumbler back off him, tipping it crazily until the ice nearly fell out, like he was trying to inspect the bottom of the glass for traces of invisible whiskey. Of course, he found none, and his face practically coloured. Miserably, he said, “I am so sorry, buddy. I can make it up to you by showing you the bed! It’s so big you can roll in it, and the _texture_ -”

“John,” Bruce sighed, not without patience he’d worked for during their partnership. “What are you up to?”

John frowned. “What?”

“The phone call,” Bruce started, keeping amusement thin in his voice. John was regarding him with open worry, and Bruce wondered if he should reflect it. How extreme was the situation? “The camera sounds. _Political scum_. You love being Joker. You haven’t been a night without putting the makeup on since you were released from Arkham again. You begged for this position.”

Quiet, real anger flashed in John’s eyes. Bruce registered it, and tensed vigilantly. “Did I sign a contract signing away my soul, _buddy_?” he growled. The endearing innocence that had once danced in his eyes was gone, replaced by roiling thunder, the kind at the start of a storm: somewhat tame, somewhat innocent, but still worth stiffening over. “I can’t even have a weekend to myself?”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Bruce replied wearily, dampening his own temper with effort. He wasn’t used to it, having to wantonly control his anger for the sake of a relationship, and it filled his mouth with an ashy taste, and his lungs with delicate fire. “You can have all the time off you want, John. I was the one insisting you needed a break in the first place. But you’re up to something.” He added hastily, “Nothing bad. I don’t think that for a moment. I trust you, John. I trust The Joker.” Some of the anger in John’s gaze thinned, as did his flickering resolve, and Bruce realised abruptly – well, he didn’t _realise_ , but more registered proof. “John, are you working on a case without me?”

John sighed, and gestured drowsily at the bed. “Sit down, Batsy,” he relented. “I’ll explain – everything.”

Bruce did, sitting down on the expensive mattress. It felt oddly intimate to be sitting on a bed someone else planned to sleep in, and he didn’t know whether that made him uncomfortable or not. The bed was almost unbearably plush, and he sank into the tender mattress pleasurably. “Okay,” he prompted. “Explain.”

John picked up something, something ragged and small and a little infuriating: the doll of Bruce he’d made himself during his first ever stay in Arkham, before they’d even met. Bruce had permitted him to keep it, so long as he didn’t do anything mildly weird like sleep with it. It seemed John had neglected to follow through with his side of the bargain. Oddly, it didn’t make Bruce angry in the slightest. John played with doll Bruce’s little, undetailed hands anxiously, and sucked in air through his teeth like he was calming a burning mouth. “Can’t we have drinks first?” he squeaked miserably. “To... er... break the ice?”

“Stop deterring,” Bruce admonished. “No more ice.”

“Right! Right.” John sighed, turning little Bruce so he could look into its ominous button eyes. “Well, I guess I should tell you the basic outline first, buddy. I’m here to spy on the new mayor.”

“The new mayor?” Bruce echoed in surprise, and then scolded himself for not realising sooner; the suite was directly next to the mayor’s office. “I mean, why?”

After all, he’d been under the impression the new mayor was... all right. A little dodgy, sure, but you weren’t going to get a saint in Gotham. He’d given him his vote; the mayor had promised to help clean up Gotham with the aid of Joker and Batman, and he’d seemed to mean it, and still did.

But maybe because it was Gotham, Bruce should have known.

John blinked. “I was tipped about some crooked dealings going on,” he explained. “The mayor, terrorising people into giving him votes; support. I didn’t want to believe it, Brucie! You seemed – _seem_ – to trust him, and I trust you. But I needed to investigate, because that’s my job, isn’t it? I know I should have told you, especially because I promised to never keep secrets, but... you’re _Batman_. You’re so much more _cooler_ than me!” He looked down at little Bruce in frustrated shame, rubbing the stuffed man’s chubby cheeks with his papery thumbs. “I guess... I just wanted to have a little spotlight for once. I wanted people to _notice me_. ‘Joker takes down dodgy mayor’, ‘Joker, our hero’. I’m a caterpillar next to a butterfly. You’re the butterfly, buddy.” He shook his head. “And, primarily, I wanted you to be _proud of me_. For me to be worthy of fighting by your side.”

“I _am_ proud,” Bruce protested, astonished – astonished he’d been feeling this way, astonished he hadn’t told him about it before, astonished he’d resorted to breaking their partnership in secret and doing a case himself for a little sense of worth. “And you’re worth it. God, you’re worth it. You can’t – You can’t seriously believe you’re less... less... _cool_ than me, can you? Have you _seen_ your vigilante get-up? Or how quickly you’ve learned how to be a vigilante? Or your dedication? Your passion?”

“Well...” A serene smile curled John’s lips. “When you put it like that...”

“There’s no Joker without Batman,” Bruce soothed, looking at that ridiculous doll of his. “All right? No me without you. We’re equals. A team.”

John sniffed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well... in that case, you should ask Dad to bring your stuff!” John had been calling Alfred ‘Dad’ since he’d come back: he’d said it the first time Alfred had set a plate of food in front of him, and washed his dishes and his clothes, and woken him up in the morning so he could give Bruce a miserable farewell before work. At first, it had been a joke; slowly, it had become an endearment. If Alfred minded, he didn’t show it. “I mean, you are going to help me with this case, aren’t you?”

Bruce smiled. It was a genuine smile, no matter how small, and it eroded some of the tension in both of them. “We’re a team,” he reminded him patiently, and John giddily escorted him to the balcony with no further words needed.

***

“You’re seriously telling me you don’t binge-eat? Snack? Even breathe in the smell of chocolate and sugar?”

Bruce was industriously adjusting a camera onto a tripod, with the lens facing a window to the mayor’s office, but it was fiddly, and his vision was starting to blur with tiredness, so he was finding it quite difficult, and John made no move to help, slotting a memory card into another backup camera. It was one in the morning, and they’d, so far, spent hours uneventfully eating sugary room service food and playing cards while waiting for the mayor to show up. Bruce had won most of the matches, to John’s chagrin, but John was much more interested in the fact that Bruce had never tried a chocolate cake bar before. “Being Batman requires a lot of energy,” he responded wearily, “and a body that is built with strength and muscle. I can’t take down criminals on a diet of cake bars, Coke and Skittles, can I?”

John shuddered theatrically and stuck his tongue out. “Vegetables.” He placed the backup camera on a smaller tripod, his delicate fingers working with infuriating ease. Bruce cast him a brief glance of envy. “What about sugar rushes, buddy? Energy!”

“Sugar rushes create crashes,” Bruce said bluntly. “Eating vegetables is a small price to pay when it comes to protecting the city.”

“But grease and sodium and sugar and-”

Bruce didn’t hear the rest. Instead, he focused on the dull but intensifying sound of a woman whistling. It sounded like she was approaching their room. Panic flared, and he thought of everything he could do. He could knock over the tripods, or bury them in the blankets, but then they’d end up standing there with awkward tautness and guilty expressions – it would arouse suspicion. They were supposed to be a married couple on their honeymoon. He needed to make sure she didn’t hover. He formulated a plan that made him feel like he’d swallowed pigeons, and cast John a quick look out the corner of his eye, who had finally trailed off and was biting his tongue in concentration. If this rebounded–

Bruce picked up the tripods and threw them onto the bed. John shot him a very startled look as Bruce wrestled the thin silk sheets over the incriminating evidence. Her whistles were unbearably close now.

“Bruce? What are you-”

Just like he had the tripods only seconds before, Bruce practically threw John, weightless as he was, onto the bed, who yelped in astonishment on his way down.

“Bruce? Buddy! Bruce, what are you doing? Hey, buddy, this isn’t funny-”

Bruce kissed him, kissed the taste of hard candy shells and chocolate from his lips, and John _melted_. He stopped straining against him, like a switch had been flipped off in his brain, and pushed his magnetically feather-soft lips up towards Bruce’s face with shocking eagerness, chasing his mouth, his hands chasing his hair. The silk sheets were warm, but John was warmer underneath him – he was pliant softness and angles, and seemed even smaller when he was pinned by Bruce’s thickness, his height; so delicate, straining _towards_ him, not away...

When the door opened, he heard it underneath the roaring of blood in his ears – or was it John’s blood? It was hard to tell, what with both of them trying to mouth the lips off each other’s faces; where did one person begin, and the other end? This was what he wondered as a mortified worker, with spare bedding sandwiched between her arms, mumbled an apology and ducked out the room with helpful haste.

He listened to her receding footsteps trail into nothingness before he broke the kiss. John looked dazed underneath him, his hair an array, his eyes unfocused, his hot, sweet breath that smelt like chocolate tickling Bruce’s chin. When his eyes did focus, they twinkled dazzlingly with awe inside his face, which almost seemed to hold faint traces of pink over his unnaturally pallid cheeks.

“What was that for? I-I mean, I’m hardly complaining, Bruce! But... why now?”

Bruce blinked, before he realised – _he doesn’t know about the worker. He didn’t hear her_. He went to tell him, tell him that he’d kissed him to chase the worker away, but the words crawled up his throat and died, because John was giggling now. Not insane giggles. Nothing laced with malice, nothing that jarred shivers down his spine. These were the overwrought giggles that were portrayed in movies, the giggles of someone talking to their crush, the giggles of someone who got kissed for the first time, the giggles of someone in awe. Crushing that seemed so wrong it almost made him recoil from it.

Then he wondered if he wanted to. A part of him unhelpfully stated that initiating this, whatever this was, had been a fear of his, and now the opportunity to was being dished to him, free of charge, and who was he to turn away from it? He knew now: he knew exactly how John would react. Not with disgust, or even malice, but with shimmery, wet eyes, and a closed-mouth smile, and endless tender giggles. It wasn’t what his subconscious, the subconscious that had fantasised and fantasised again, had imagined. Not even close. This was a hope, a dream...

“Ah,” John sighed contentedly. “Even now, a man of few words.”

Letting himself become thoughtless, Bruce kissed him again experimentally. Warmth burst, sweet like candied juice. John arched towards him, purring, his hands fisting Bruce’s shirt. Bruce’s heart felt strange, almost swollen, and when John hitched up his shirt, brushing his fingers over his scarred lower back, his heart and his lungs expanded in unison. By the time John was heartily exploring Bruce’s chest, his quivering stomach, Bruce knew it was time to withdraw.

John looked disappointed. He damn near _pouted_. “What’s wrong? Do I need to brush my teeth? I – er – I’ve never, you know, kissed anyone before, so I know I’m not that, you know, _good_ , but-”

“How far are we taking this?” Bruce asked to clear the budding confusion, the haze of indecisions. He felt John tense underneath him, and nearly amended he didn’t expect sex, especially when they’d only just kissed, that it _was_ too soon; he’d only been wondering about the boundaries of where to touch, where not to touch–

“To infinity and beyond.”

Bruce blinked, surprised. “Are you sure?”

“It’s long overdue.” John touched Bruce’s hand and brought it to his face. His skin was like soft leather, and Bruce caressed it with his thumb, taking advantage of his ability to touch. “And it wouldn’t be meaningless, would it, buddy? Do you love me?”

“Yes,” Bruce admitted, with more breath than voice. He did. He could admit that now, not just to him but to himself. He ducked his face to his neck, and inhaled. He smelt like skin and chemicals. “So much.”

“Then I trust you.” John wrapped his arms around his shoulders, his eyes unusually grave. “It doesn’t matter if it’s now or in months or years, does it, Brucie? Not if you love me, and I love you...”

Bruce gave him a feather-light kiss, feeling drunk with confessions and his scent. “We don’t need to rush if it isn’t ideal,” he insisted.

“I want you to make love to me, buddy.” John abruptly rolled them over, and Bruce’s heart slammed against his spine in surprise. “I want to make love to you.” He fisted the sheets and smiled at them. “Besides, we can’t waste the bed, can we?”

Making physical love with John felt like basking in the sun in the summer, inhaling the smell of baking grass and barbeque smoke, listening to the sounds of children playing in their small paddling pools. It was homey and gentle, and everything Bruce could have ever hoped for. Giving up dominance, giving up control, it felt like nothing – feeling John inside him, completing him, not controlling him, just filling an empty part of him physically and mentally, it washed away all insecurities like water on paint, and it made him feel weightless and secure. He couldn’t help but feel like they fit together poetically, almost like they’d been made for each other. After all, he’d felt no apprehension through the experience, no discomfort, not when he’d heard the crackle of protection, or felt John’s slender fingers inside him, on him, or felt John himself pushing into places that succumbed to him too easily. He realised he couldn’t get closer to John now, not unless they clawed their hearts out their chests and switched them, not unless they climbed inside each other.

When Bruce came not long after John, the dripping chandelier light from overhead performed elegant cartwheels and gifted swirls, and he inhaled the smell of sex – sweat, breath, the sheets. Their skin was glued, combining sweat as they combined spit, and Bruce was wrapped around him hopelessly, feeling like he was the anchor that kept him afloat, so close to tears it was humiliating.

As much as he thought he would have, he regretted none of it. And from the way John giggled as he was snuggled into, he didn’t either.

***

They managed to get video evidence of the mayor’s dodgy dealings. It was far too easy, and Bruce silently saluted John for his camera idea, because, with a practised zoom, which focused on the writing and spilled secrets onto camera film, they had enough to take to the Gotham Gazette. John’s uplifted mood was magical to see; he smiled all the way to the news station, and came out beaming, his hands on his hips, as he said routinely, “We did good today, partner!”

The mayor resigned immediately, and Bruce personally paid the people who were affected by his crooked wrongdoings, which got him pasted on newspapers for yet another charitable deed.

But this wasn’t the only reason.

On an uneventful Tuesday, when Bruce took time off work, John entered his bedroom – _their_ bedroom. After the honeymoon incident, John had moved his stuff from his own bedroom to Bruce’s, and, apart from John’s occasional snoring, Bruce found he quite liked the aspects of their new sleeping arrangements, despite himself, including cuddles when they were both bruised and exhausted from patrol – with a tray of breakfast foods: a tall kale smoothie and eggs scrambled on toast for Bruce, a hefty stack of syrup-dribbling waffles for John, and a glass of orange juice with a straw. He was holding a newspaper, and he was staring at it tearily.

“What?” Bruce asked, alarmed. He presumed, with a twisted gut, something bad had happened, and John was beating himself up for not doing something like the dedicated vigilante he was, so brimmed with inspiring ardour. Bruce was sat up in their bed, stripped to nothing but boxers, and he watched from his position anxiously. Their cooked window was open, fanning in warm air. It was stifling. “John, what’s wrong?”

John gestured at the bed, and Bruce understood; he budged up so John could sit on the edge of Bruce’s side of the bed, sniffling. “You-” He hiccupped. “You came out for me?”

Bruce angled his head, and saw the front page of the newspaper. On it was a picture of John and Bruce at a gala before they’d gotten together, but the article was dedicated to the news that Bruce now had a man in his life. As promised, it didn’t linger on John’s time in Arkham, or anything about sexualities or politics, but John understood him, could see into him like he was glass, and, judging by his watery expression, knew exactly how meaningful it was he’d told Gotham, told the world, about their relationship. He reached out and affectionately tried to pat down John’s bedhead, but it sprung back into place. “I love you,” he told him passionately. “I don’t want labels. I don’t want to be given a sexuality. I don’t want to be gay or bisexual. I love you, and that comes without labels, so I didn’t really see it as ‘coming out’. I saw it as telling my city, finally, that you’re everything I could ever want. That you’re all I need.”

John wailed and patted his eyes with the sleeves of his dressing gown. “You watch that mouth, Bruce Wayne! Or I’ll – I’ll sob! And you don’t want to hear it! When – When did you tell them?”

“When we handed in the evidence against the mayor,” Bruce admitted.

“So that’s where you walked off to! I thought you’d been swallowed into another dimension, buddy!” John snorted a laugh, and meditatively nibbled on one of his waffles.

There was a knock on the door. “Master Bruce? Master John? If you’re quite done sobbing, I have a letter for both of you. And if you’re doing something quite scarring, I might suggest cladding yourself, because I’m walking in in exactly five seconds whether you’re attached at the hips or not.”

“Dad! Come in, come in!”

Alfred came in obediently, holding a sealed envelope against his breast. He didn’t get chance to assume the smart posture of a butler; John threw himself at him, all slender legs and buckling enthusiasm, and Alfred nearly toppled over. Bruce swallowed a laugh.

“Dad, Dad, did you read the newspaper? Did you see it?”

“Yes, I did.” Alfred’s voice was coloured by equal amounts of frustration and amusement. “Master John, I’m finding it quite difficult to breathe.”

John snorted another laugh. “Oh, sorry.” He got down, wafting the newspaper in front of Alfred’s face. “Isn’t he the greatest?”

Alfred looked at Bruce. Their relationship had been struggling since Alfred had made the decision to come back, so the pride, real, fatherly pride inside Alfred’s eyes, Bruce saw when he stared back startled him. “I’m proud of both of you and how far you’ve come. I’m glad you make my boy happy, Master John. Heaven knows, even heroes dressed as giant rodents deserve it.”

“Bats aren’t rodents,” Bruce mumbled, while John started sobbing as he threw himself at Alfred again.

“You’ve set me off again! Group hug, group hug!”

Bruce moaned, and moaned, so John brought the group hug to him. He had to admit, it felt... nice.

It felt nice to have his family right there in his arms, right where they belonged, and John Doe, the undoubted, soppy, stupidly devoted love of his life curled like a content kitten against his chest. He could get used to it.

“What’s the letter, Dad?”

“You’ve both been invited to a party. The host thought it was important to invite Bruce’s new significant other.”

“Look, Bruce! Our first invite somewhere as a couple!”

“Parties are tedious.”

“That’s because you’ve never been to one with _danseur_ John Doe.”

“Stop wiggling your eyebrows. It’s strange.”

Yes, he could get used to it – a tightly-knitted, small family.

 


End file.
